


Parfait

by softmoth



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Choking, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mind Games, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 02:13:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softmoth/pseuds/softmoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“No,” Will smiles, almost laughs, and shakes his head. “No, he’s. He’s not human. He’s… perfect."</i>'</p><p>  <i>The smile falls from his face and Will’s heart is pounding in his throat. He feels like he might vomit.</i></p><p>  <i>“Dr. Lecter, he’s perfect.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Filling a prompt from the kink meme (http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/2246.html?thread=3176390#cmt3176390):  
>  _Will is completely turned on by Chesapeake Ripper's design and considers him to be the perfect killer. Will pleasures himself regularly to the intricate details, theatricality and effort put into the crime and occasionally when he takes home a stranger he will think about the desgins while he's being fucked and sometimes he'll fantasise it is the Ripper (as he imagines him to be) instead of the stranger. Hannibal picks up on this during a session and describes the crimes in an effort to arouse Will. Bonus if Will figures out Hannibal is the Ripper during sex and it only turns him on more._

When Will awakens, it’s to an incessant throbbing between his legs, pulsing and demanding his attention.

It’s happened, before. Sometimes, during his nightmares where he assumes a killer’s point of view, he can feel the underlying sexual component to their murders- the sickly sweet, heady rush of power that sparks through his/their veins like electrical pulses and causes his/their cock to thicken and swell.  

Sometimes, in his sleep, dreaming about murder makes him get hard. Although it used to worry him, he is acclimated to it by now, and it’s a simple problem with an even simpler solution.

It’s only as Will begins to skim his right hand reflexively down his lower stomach, fingertips just dipping below the waistline of his jeans (jeans, why did he wear jeans to bed?) that he realizes something isn’t right.

His hand freezes in place, and slowly, he begins to take inventory of his surroundings:

He’s cold, not uncomfortably so, but unusually so- a result of the fact that he isn’t covered by a blanket. The mattress under him is hard, not soft like his own. The room he is in is totally silent, save the ticking of a faraway clock and the gentle breathing of another person.

Conclusion: he is not at Wolf Trap, at home, in his bed.

He is in Hannibal Lecter’s office, most likely having a therapy session while reclining on the chaise. And his hand is still almost down the front of his pants.

Will yanks his hand away from his body as though he were burned, eyes shooting open. Immediately, he is looking up at the office ceiling, sharp and in focus. He’s still wearing his glasses. And when he pushes himself up with one arm, swinging his legs over the side of the chaise and planting his feet on the ground to reorient himself, he’s looking into the stoic face of Doctor Lecter, who appeared to have been watching him intently from behind his desk. Probably for some time.

“Will. Are you back with me?”

Will’s own face burns, and his voice cracks.

“I, uh, I’m- I’m sorry, I… I thought that I was in my home, and…”

“You lost time,” It isn’t interrupting, because Hannibal never interrupts. He merely waits a beat for Will to trail off, and then clarifies.

Will nods and Hannibal frowns, a slight downturn at only one corner of his mouth. He leans back in his chair, drumming slender fingers along the desk’s hard surface once. Twice.

“What is the last thing you remember?”

Will clears his throat again out of anxious habit. His hands grip the chair on either side of him as he turns his head, looking at Hannibal’s shoulder, his throat, his suit lapels. Anywhere but his eyes. He resists the immature urge to cover his erection, still obviously tenting the front of his jeans. But he is beyond modesty at this point, and to do so would only draw more attention to the whole humiliating ordeal.

“I remember… coming here,” he begins, looking just beyond Hannibal’s shoulder. He focuses on the black statue of a stag, just near the door, something he can’t help but fixate on during their sessions when he needs somewhere to stare that isn’t the good doctor’s impassive expression. “I remember sitting down, and you asked me about the weather.” He pauses.

“I did,” Hannibal encourages, “Your hair and clothing were thoroughly soaked when you arrived at my office, and I thought perhaps you had gotten caught in the rain.”

Will hunches his shoulders, smiling in his painful way that resembled more of a grimace as he shook his head. “But it was sweat, not rain, and I asked you ‘Why do you ask?’”

Hannibal nods, reaching for his notebook and flipping a page.

“Yes. You were confused, clearly disoriented even then. What else?”

Will scrunches up his face. “You made me draw a clock with the current time, and say my name, and where I was.”

Hannibal glances down to the clock in his notebook, a hurried scribble barely resembling a circle with erratic numbers melting along the edges, slipping down the clock’s face like a surrealistic painting. The “7” was backwards. He makes a noncommittal noise when Will fails to continue, and looks up.

“Is that all you remember?”

Will’s gaze is far away as he nods, and Hannibal steeples his fingers. He breathes in deeply through his nose and, yet again, Will gets the uncomfortable but distinct impression that he’s being smelled.

“Who did you kill this time, William?”

Will forces his grip on the chaise to loosen, pulling his hands up and rubbing at his face. He doesn’t ask how Hannibal knows, because Hannibal always seems to know.

“Natalie Lange, the- the little girl. From the case today.”

8 years old, blonde hair, green eyes, 4’7 and barely 90lbs soaking wet. And she had been soaking wet, her body washed up and waterlogged on the beach, the skin removed from her cheeks and belly in cleanly cut rectangles and her liver completely gone. Close, but not quite the Chesapeake Ripper’s M.O. Most likely another copycat- or the same one, changing up his tactics. Will wasn’t quite sure yet.

“He liked that she was small, that she was… breakable. That he could snap her wrists with his hands, crush her ankles with a single stomp. She looked serene in death, cherubic, and he- he really, uh, he- enjoyed that. It gave him pleasure, that he, he was the one to cause it.”

“Pleasure,” Hannibal repeats and, shockingly, his eyes dart down to gaze at Will’s crotch. The glimpse is fast, almost imperceptible, but Will catches it and it causes a fresh wave of hot humiliation to curl in his stomach.

Somehow, amazingly, he was still hard. Jesus.

“I’m, I’m really sorry Dr. Lecter,” he stammers, pushing himself up suddenly. He could feel the starting twinges of a panic attack, his chest constricts, his vision tunnels, and articulating himself becomes near impossible. On the plus side, panic causes his arousal to immediately wilt. The only plus side.

 “I really should, the dogs, I didn’t know I would- this is so- I should get back, feed my dogs, I wasn’t, I didn’t mean to, I’m so sorry.”

He makes a beeline for the door on Hannibal’s left, the discrete patient exit, but he’s stopped by a firm hand on his upper bicep holding him back. He hadn’t even heard Hannibal stand up, but suddenly he was there, holding Will back.

“I am afraid I must insist you remain,” Hannibal’s voice is pitched low and psychiatrist-soothing as he gently steers will back to the chaise. “I realize you are very uncomfortable right now, and for that I am sorry. But you have nothing to be apologetic about. Your body cannot discern between the points of view your mind chooses to take, and you cannot be held responsible for the results. But you are clearly in a state of disorientation, and it would be irresponsible of me to allow you to go- both as your doctor, and as your friend.”

Gently, Hannibal bears down on Will’s arm, and Will finds himself once again seated on the chaise. Hannibal drops his grip.

“I am worried about you, Will.”

Will scoffs, scratching at his neck. “Been hearing that a lot. Too much.”

To his surprise, Hannibal sits down next to him on the reclined chair instead of behind his desk. He folds his hands in his lap and looks straight ahead, but Will can feel the heat of him, the implication of his closeness, even through their respective layers of clothing.

He can’t remember Hannibal ever sitting this close.

“Would you prefer if others did not care for your wellbeing?”

“I would PREFER to catch this sick killer before he mutilates any other little girls and dumps them into the lake like garbage just because it turns him on.”

Hannibal bristles, and Will immediately regrets the rudeness of his outburst. But before he can apologize, Hannibal speaks again.

“Is this another victim of the Ripper?”

Will actually laughs then, a harsh, ugly bark that causes Hannibal to shift minutely and face him with a questioning expression.

“No. No, definitely not.” As if the question was so absurd he couldn’t even fathom Hannibal asking it.

And maybe it’s just Will’s imagination, but Hannibal looks… pleased?

“You sound quite sure of the fact.”

“That’s because I am.” Will looks through the side of his glasses to glance at Hannibal’s expression, and nearly sucks in a breath at how close the other man’s face is, staring at him with uncomfortable intensity.

The chaise seemed suddenly, inexplicably, far too cramped.

“I know it’s not him, it’s too… sloppy. Rushed. A poor imitation. Like a particularly bad counterfeit painting.”

Hannibal chuckles and Will feels the bump of a shoulder against his own.

“You compare the Ripper’s crimes to a piece of artwork then?”

“Yes.” Will answers without hesitation, and it’s only after the fact that he realizes maybe he should have hesitated, because Hannibal’s body suddenly stiffens, all traces of good humor gone. He doesn’t have to look to see that the doctor is sitting ramrod straight next to him, hands clenched on his knees, marring the clean lines of his suit pants.

But Will can’t stop himself now that he’s started and the words come rushed, excited- manic, even to his own ears.

“The Ripper, he kills and it's like art. It IS art. The victims are, they aren’t victims, they’re… instruments. Tools. Like paint, or an easel. He doesn’t kill to brutalize, to rape, to feel big and powerful. He. He’s meticulous. Immaculate. His arrangements, his design, the way he kills and presents the bodies, it isn’t senseless. There’s always a message, there’s always something that he’s trying to tell m- us. Tell us. Isn’t that all art is? An attempt to convey a message?”

Will thinks, I shouldn’t be saying this. Any of this. But there’s something irresistible about it, about spilling his darkest secrets, like picking a scab to watch it bleed. And this is Hannibal, his doctor. His friend. Surely, if Will could confide in anyone, it would be him.

“Sometimes,” Will says, tongue darting out to wet dry lips. “I feel like he’s speaking to me. Just to me. Like a trail of breadcrumbs, leading me back to him. Because- because I understand him. And he wants me to find him.”

There is a pause where nothing is said, and Will doesn’t dare look at Hannibal, has no idea what to expect.

Then, suddenly, Hannibal is standing, moving quickly to position himself directly in front of Will and bending down so they are eye level, bracing his hands on Will’s shoulders. Forcing Will to meet his gaze.

“You say that the Ripper doesn’t kill to feel powerful.” Hannibal speaks lowly, gravely. “You felt powerful, when you shot Hobbs, did you not?”

Will has to swallow twice, blinking back tears before forcing out a whispered: “yes”.

“Why, then,” and Hannibal is close, too close, eyes frightening and dark, as dark as the inky feathers of a stag, “do you assume he does not? He is only human.”

“No,” Will smiles, almost laughs, and shakes his head. “No, he’s. He’s not human. He’s… perfect.”

The smile falls from his face and Will’s heart is pounding in his throat. He feels like he might vomit.

“Dr. Lecter, he’s perfect.”

Hannibal kisses him then, swiftly and violently, swallowing Will’s open-mouthed whimpers. He feels himself being pressed back into the chaise, Hannibal shifting them so Will lay prostrate on the lounge as Hannibal knelt over him, kissing his way down the side of Will’s face, to the crook of his neck.

Bite me, Will thinks, god, please bite me.

And Hannibal does, sinking his teeth directly over the throbbing pulse in Will’s neck, his own hands unbuttoning Will’s jeans.

Will groans brokenly, unashamedly, and when he feels his zipper pulled down, the fly of his jeans opened, he starts babbling again.

“Sometimes, I, I fantasize about him. The Ripper. Or, not him, but who he might be.”

Hannibal has a hand against Will now, warm and firm, slowly feeling the outline of Will’s cock through his underwear.

"I go to bars, I meet... other men. I get in their cars, I go to their houses, I let them fuck me. And I pretend that they are him, that they are the Ripper, that they’ve kidnapped me and they’re going to k-"

His voice sticks and he chokes on the words, can’t say it, can’t verbalize any more of his fucked up fantasy. He gets off on pretending that they’re going to kill him.

He realizes distantly that he’s crying, shameful tears streaming down his face.

Hannibal licks at Will’s salty cheek as he peels down Will’s underwear, pulling out his now substantial erection, stroking it from base to tip and back again. At some point he had rolled up his sleeves, and Will shudders as he watches the finely boned hands carefully manipulate his cock, thumbing the head and slicking him with the fluid found there.

 Hannibal leans forward to press his mouth directly against Will’s ear and murmur.

“There are those who would faint at mere photographs of what the Ripper has done, the atrocities he has created. And yet, you have been at the crime scenes, seen firsthand what he is capable of, and you are aroused.” He gives Will another squeeze, wrings out a choked off moan. “Very aroused. What does that say about you, Will Graham?”

Will squeezes his eyes shut, grabbing at Hannibal’s wrists. He should pull them away, make him stop, leave this office. This is insane.

But Will hasn’t felt sane in a very long time.

He presses Hannibal’s hands tighter against himself, canting his hips up. Demanding.

“Please,” he begs, and Hannibal grins, wide and dark and utterly terrifying.

 

 


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [spoilers for S1EP11]

Hannibal can smell the hysteria rising in Will: the salty-sweet tang of norepinephrine flooding his brain and constricting his chest, racing his heart.

He shakes off Will’s unstable grip around his own wrists easily, keeping one hand firmly cupping the swell of Will’s arousal while raising the other to grip Will under his neck.

He holds Will’s chin roughly, jabbing the tips of his index and middle finger under the sharp line of Will’s jaw in order to take a pulse. He presses just over the still forming bruise where he had bitten down only moments ago.

Hannibal counts the rapid thumps under his fingertips.

“One hundred and sixty-two BPM,” he recites monotonously. “That’s quite elevated, even for someone in your state. Are you feeling panicked, Will?”

Will lets out a harsh breath, hips still squirming incessantly beneath Hannibal’s grip.

“I’m feeling… I feel… oh god, please. Please.”

Will has given up all pretense of pushing the doctor away. Instead, he starts pulling at Hannibal, grabbing at his arms, his shoulders, whatever he can reach as though Hannibal were a lifeline keeping him afloat.

Hannibal may as well be. In this moment, he is well aware that his presence is the only thing anchoring Will to any sort of coherency.

 But he is also curious- what does Will Graham look like when he drowns?

“When you entertain these fantasies,” Hannibal says, voice calm and neutral as though he were still sitting across from Will and advising him- as though this were like any other session- “are you reconstructing the crime scenes? Or are you living out the crimes?”

He keeps his stokes slow but unwavering, a solid pump from root to tip and back again. Steady. Grounding.

Will is all but keening, eyes squeezed shut, hips rolling against Hannibal’s fist, which becomes increasingly slick with fluid.

“The crimes,” he gasps, voice hoarse. “I feel, I see the crimes. I am- I’m a part of them.”

Hannibal allows his other hand to trail down Will’s sweaty neck, scraping across ever-present stubble, briefly skimming flushed lips that are open and panting, and pausing just above the collar of Will’s button down shirt.

With deft dexterity, Hannibal opens the first button, then the next, and the next. Using a single finger he gently pulls the shirt open, exposing the Will’s left collar bone, a peek of chest, and a single dusky nipple, tight and flushed.

Hannibal splays his fingers just over Will's racing heart.

“You want to be prey,” Hannibal hisses, pressing down on Will’s chest. Pushing him against the chaise.

Will’s breath stutters in his throat and Hannibal can feel how close the other man is.

“But you are not prey, Will. You are a hunter. A killer. You’ve killed before.”

Idly, he scratches at Will’s chest, watching red welts form and raise along the pale skin.

He skims Will’s nipple, takes it between his thumb and forefinger. He pinches, hard enough to be painful, just to see how Will would react.

To Hannibal’s surprise, the reaction is favorable. Will cries out, arching his chest up and whimpering, his cock pulsing hotly in Hannibal’s grip, so Hannibal adjusts the pressure. He squeezes tightly at the base, pressing down on Will’s testicles. Denying release. Delaying the inevitable.

“You revel in the details,” Hannibal continues after a moment, studying Will’s pained expression. His eyes are still closed behind his glasses and his mouth is open, teeth bared, jaw clenched. Hannibal would very much like to pry Will's jaw open, bite his way into Will’s mouth and taste the soft ridges of his upper palate. But he restrains himself.

“You enjoy the minute intricacies of the Ripper’s crimes, the attention to detail. The fastidious planning.”

“Yes,” Will sobs, and he sounds grateful. “Yes.”

He IS grateful, grateful to hear someone else give voice to fantasies which he could never verbally admit to.

Hannibal knows that repeating his analysis back to Will, out loud, gives the other man a sense of solidarity, of comfort- Will might feel that Hannibal understands him. Knows him. Maybe, on some level, even accepts him.

And Hannibal is fascinated. He wonders, what would Will do if he's pushed just over the edge? How much pushing would he even require?

Already Will is so close, writhing and squirming, panting like an animal, begging for something he doesn’t even know he needs- Hannibal’s understanding.

Hannibal can give that to him.

“When you are with other men, experiencing their touch, their hands on you,” Hannibal unravels his fingers from their grip and cups his hand between Will’s legs almost tenderly, Will's erection a hard line beneath his hand, “you imagine a killer’s hands in their place, prodding for your weak points. Picking out the vulnerable spots of your body to exploit them. And when you relive the crimes, it is the finer particularities of the murders which bring you to completion. Am I correct?”

“ _Completion_ , jesus,” Will groans. His face is pressed into the side of the chaise, as if he can’t bear to watch what’s happening, but his entire body, prone as it is, strains toward Hannibal- the invariable pull of positive and negative magnetics, opposite poles that forever reach toward the other.

Hannibal is Will's gauge. When Will's reality crumbles, the lines warping and blurring into hallucinations and dreams, he will always come back to Hannibal and trust him to redefine that tenuous edge between reality and fever- Hannibal had made sure of that.

They will always be pulled together.

Hannibal tilts his head to the side, eyes hooded, taking in Will’s strained expression. “Would you prefer more clinical terminology? Your climax, orgasm?”

“Kiss me again,” Will pleads.

“No. Not right now. Perhaps in a moment.”

He lets Will rut against his palm, thighs coming together to clench tightly on either side of Hannibal’s loose hold in an effort to reach some sort of friction. Hannibal allows his free hand to settle on Will’s hip, rucking up his shirt to rub the warm, sweat-slick flesh over bone.

“When was the last time you fantasized, Will? Have you touched yourself to Dr. Sutcliffe? Have you imagined the intimacy, the closeness that he must have felt as the Ripper cradled his head and cut into his face?”

Will sobs again, a real sob, face wet with tears and nose running as his cock pulses hotly against Hannibal’s palm.

Hannibal finds it lovely.

“Or what about the poor Madchen girl, blackened beyond recognition? Have you pleasured yourself to her memory?”

“N-no, she’s not, she wasn’t,” Will’s voice shakes between whimpers “it was the c-copycat, and she was- I- she-“

“Will, it’s alright,” Hannibal soothes, voice low. Will is so close to breaking, Hannibal can almost taste him cracking open. “She must have looked so startled, so frightened, when the single spark from her comb ignited a firestorm, a burning tomb, one that she-“

“Wait,” Will interrupts, eyes shooting open, wide and horrified behind crooked glasses. “The comb. How did you know about the comb? I never told-” His head jerks forward and he stares at Hannibal like a deer stares at a wolf.

Hannibal smiles accordingly, all teeth and hunger. Will's thighs clench tighter, possibly in arousal but probably in fear, which strikes Hannibal as unbearably endearing.

Will continues to stammer out:

"You're the one who left it there. You... you gave her the comb."

Hannibal doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t need to. He watches in rapt fascination as his dear Will works it out, the gears of his wonderful mind practically visible in their churning as his eyes glaze over.

He’s seeing the crimes, living them again, going step by step through every murder. Only this time, he’s wearing Hannibal’s shoes and seeing every bit of gore and viscera through a dour expression and blood red eyes.

“It’s you,” Will says, breathless, and Hannibal grips him harshly, one hand pressing Will’s hips down into the chaise and the other stroking him fiercely- fast and erratic. Chaotic.

“Concentrate, Will. You are very close.”

“It’s you, it’s always been you, it’s- oh, god, I’ve been telling you everything and you’re the one, you’ve been- you are-“

“Shh. Concentrate.”

And with a broken howl Will finally, finally breaks, spending himself in long, hot pulses that land over his own stomach and chest, staining the front of his shirt.

Hannibal rubs his thumb in soothing circles over Will’s hip, gentling him through the shivering aftershocks and carefully easing Will back into his underwear when he stops shaking with climax and starts shaking with panic. An almost imperceptible overlap, but Hannibal recognizes it nonetheless.

He knows Will, completely. Mind and body.

“You’re the Chesapeake Ripper.” Will’s voice sounds harsh, a throat full of glass shards, and Hannibal withdraws his hands to wrap them firmly around that aching throat. But this time he does not take Will's pulse. Instead, he applies the slightest amount of pressure.

“Do you still wish me to kiss you?” Hannibal asks.

Will’s lips part, and although he’s gasping in air it is an answer in and of itself.

Hannibal leans down and covers Will's mouth with his own, increasing the constriction around Will's neck each time Will makes a soft protesting sound that is lost into their kiss.

Hannibal marvels at how exquisitely Will Graham breaks and drowns, and continues to kiss him until both of their lungs burn for air.


End file.
